


Set Free

by Arkhaline



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Disassociation, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Panic Attacks, Swearing, Traumatic Touch Aversion, mental trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkhaline/pseuds/Arkhaline
Summary: Life at Outpost 48 should, for once in Wash’s life, be simple. He’s got a team, some friends(?), and a fresh start.So why is it he can’t seem to escape the events of Project Freelancer?





	1. Chapter 1

The Reds and Blues are crazy.

That has to be the only explanation for it, right?

Once again, Wash finds himself rubbing the sleep from his eyes. With a groan, he flops onto his side. It takes some repeated blinking before the clock on the wall comes into focus. The all-too-common occurrence of the Reds yelling in the canyon echoes throughout the base. He squints at the blue light coming from his nightstand. Zero two hundred hours.

Great. 

Reluctantly, he throws his legs out over the side of his mattress and pulls himself to his feet. He’d be fine if this was the first time this had happened. Of course, he’s not that lucky. Today is just like yesterday, and the day before, and the one before that. Nothing new, unfortunately.

As he is constantly reminded, the Reds and Blues are crazy. Wash can’t help but review the evidence he has gathered for the millionth time as he pulls on his armor. After all, he betrayed them, hunted them down, and killed Donut just to seek revenge on someone whom they didn’t even know. They have every reason to hate him.

Quite frankly, he wouldn’t blame them if they did.

And yet, despite everything he did, and everything he could do, they took him in when he was dying in the biting cold of Sidewinder and saved him from what would certainly be imprisonment, if not death.

The reason why they saved Wash is far beyond him. Despite all the time he has spent searching for an explanation, he never can seem to find one. He keeps telling himself that they’re crazy. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Their brains are probably just scrambled from all the time they spent in the Blood Gulch heat. Yeah. That’s exactly it. Because there is no other fathomable explanation. There just isn’t.

Right?

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to look far for confirmation of his theory. Right now, the most compelling argument for their sanity (or lack thereof) can be found in the middle of Outpost 48.

As Caboose and Tucker join Wash outside, he finds himself looking up at an outcropping of rock and, more specifically, the three Red soldiers suspended upside down from it. A cord is wrapped around their ankles, pinning them shoulder-to-shoulder. He cocks his head with a sigh. Honestly, he doesn’t know if he should be confused or disappointed. Maybe both. Even so, this is _really_ not how he pictured his morning going. 

The sounds of their familiar yet ceaseless bickering acts as the backing track to his headache. Sarge is blaming Grif for his lack of coordination, and Grif and Simmons seem moments from clocking each other upside (downside?) the head. And judging by the snickers coming from Tucker’s direction, he is almost certainly taking photos of the whole thing. Alright. No problem. Just count to ten. Hopefully, when he opens his eyes, the whole thing will have resolved itself.

After a moment, Wash looks up to see the three Reds still hanging in his field of vision.

His disappointment is almost tangible.

“What, exactly,” he begins slowly, exasperation seeping into his tone, “did you hope to accomplish here?” 

“A strategic victory, o’ course!” declares a proud Sarge. Considering his current state, however, he probably didn’t come across as triumphant as he’d intended.

Wash cocks his head as he scans the rope. “With a snare.” Despite his best efforts, it comes off as more of an incredulous statement than a question.

Grif snorts. “Sarge here made the obvious statement that you Blues are as dumb as animals,” he replies, sounding just as annoyed with the whole situation as Wash is. It’s really not that hard to believe. 

“If that’s the case,” he continues, “surely a snare would work on you guys. Truly a brilliant plan, sir.”

“Of course it is!” Simmons snaps. With a little awkward shimmy, he rotates as much as the constraints will allow to address his leader. “I’m sure we would have at least caught Caboose, sir! Another fantastic plan!”

Caboose nods. “Mhm. Yes. Uh, you are probably right. But I, um. I do not like ropes. They look like snakes.” He lowers his voice to a dull stage whisper. “Hanging from a snake does not sound fun.” Simmons flinches, and his posture curling in on itself as he warily eyes his restraints.

“Damn it, Caboose, why did you have to say snakes?”

Tucker scoffs as he gives a whole body eye roll so sarcastic Wash can’t help but wince. “Dude, you’re talking about fuckin’ _Caboose_. I’m pretty sure if you asked nicely, he’d be your prisoner.”

“Uh— I— Wha—“ Caboose sputters before giving a single _tch_. “No! Not if they _just_ asked nicely. They would at least need to offer me cookies first,” he retorts, speaking as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Stupid Tucker. I’m not that easy.”

“Bow chicka bow wow.”

Honestly, how do they ever get anything accomplished? Wait, scratch that: they don’t. Hoping to grab their attention, Wash gives what is quite possibly the most dramatic sigh ever. Of all time. “Quiet, all of you!” he exclaims. Five helmets turn to meet his gaze. Pressing his hands together in front of his visor, he takes a deep breath. “Thank you.” He shifts his weight as he turns his head towards the suspended men, rotating his wrists so his fingers aim toward them. “Alright, now how do we get you down?”

“We don’ need yer pity, ya dirty Blue! We can get down ‘rselves!”

Grif slaps a glove against his visor. “Oh, for the love of— Sarge, shut the hell up. Wash, can you lower us using that rope over there?” Using the momentum from a jerk, he rotates himself to point at a group of boulders a few hundred yards away, the end of the rope disappearing behind them.

“Nah, I say we just cut the rope and drop them on their heads,” suggests Tucker, smugness tinting his voice. “Your skulls are so fucking thick, it should cushion the fall, right?” Grif flips him the bird, which somehow amuses Tucker even more.

“Oh! I know!” Caboose pipes up, and, inexplicably, Wash finds himself very concerned. “I can lift Church and he can cut the rope!” “Church” opens his mouth as he prepares to protest, his arm raised in what would be a dismissive gesture, when Caboose’s hand wraps around his left bicep.

_Agent Washington’s vitals are spiking secure him get him under control I have to go I hate goodbyes get him to recovery do you remember your name Leonard David Alpha Church Epsilon Wash please stop resisting it’s for your own good hold still Leonard come on stop it Agent South had already shot me in the back once before I’m sorry did something about my actions indicate I expect to survive prisoner 619-B get in the cell don’t talk don’t move don’t think we don’t need to hurt her Leonard David Alpha Church Epsilon Wash I can’t I’m done so would you say you have overwhelming feelings of anger and a need for revenge more than you know_

The world slams back into reality all at once as a perpetual ringing blares in his ears. His vision is full of blurry, unidentifiable colors and everything’s spinning. Wash is alarmed to find that he can’t think, can’t function. He finds himself beneath immense suffocating pressure—is he underwater?—but he can still breathe. It’s incomprehensibly difficult, sure, but it’s not impossible. Okay. Okay. Come on, Wash. Pull yourself together. Breathe in once. Twice.

As all of his senses slowly regain functionality, he looks up. Okay, sitrep. He hit the ground at some point. That shouldn’t surprise him, though, since most of his muscles feel like gelatin. His right hand is absentmindedly gripping the spot Caboose grabbed his arm. The outpost is dead silent for once as he’s met with the stares of the others in the canyon. While he can’t see their faces, he knows for certain that they’re all wearing matching expressions. To his dismay, he realizes he’s not exactly sure what that expression is.

Caboose’s arm is still outstretched, as if moving it back to his side will send Wash into another spiral. “Church...?” he tries. Confusion seeps into his tone, masking a slight, underlying waver. 

Wash rises to his feet in one smooth motion, ignoring how the world pitches on its axis. Straight-backed with his arms stiff against his sides, he awkwardly clears his throat before continuing. “Right. Well. I’m going back to base.” Pivoting on his right heel before anyone can comment, he walks as quickly as he can without being conspicuous. He’s pretty sure they’re far past that, however, as he can practically feel the gazes of the others burning holes into the back of his helmet. 

Wash has tactfully managed to avoid touching the Blues for weeks, even if he wasn’t completely sure why he was doing so. Some things are just instinctual: you don’t question them. Sure, that led him to believe something would happen if someone touched him, but even so, he never expected an episode like that. How could he?

Whatever, it doesn’t matter, it’s behind him now, left foot, right foot, don’t think don’t think don’t think back to bed back to base don’t think don’t think don’t think–

 _Week one I was Leonard David Alpha Church Epsilon Wash strapped to a bed screaming my throat is ragged I can’t move can’t breathe who am I what am I no more sedatives no more holding me down please please Week two get away from my implants get the_ fuck _away from my implants no no stop please no more no more please_ God _no more Week x just leave me alone please please just leave me to die it would be so much better please I don’t even know who I am Leonard David Alpha Church Epsilon Wash_ who am I _who the_ fuck _am I_

When he comes to his senses, he’s curled up on the cold concrete in the corner of his room. Both the moonlight trickling through the window and his clock provide the only illumination in the dim base. At some point, he must have wrenched his helmet off of his head, as it lies discarded against the far wall. He didn’t even remember throwing it.

Wash’s fingers are tangled in his hair, repeatedly running through his locks as if punctuating every shaky inhale. Each intake of air is far too close together, far too desperate, as if this might be the last breath he’ll ever take. His knees are pulled tight to his chest, and he sets his forehead upon them as he tries to haphazardly wipe away the tear tracks coating his cheeks. The world is out of focus again and he can’t go back there he can’t they can’t make him they can’t fucking make him–

“Church?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide and body completely frozen. Standing in the doorway is a soldier in regulation blue, but it can’t be Florida. Florida is dead. Okay. Think things through logically. Separate fact from fiction. That’s nothing new; that’s something he can do. He knows his name is Church—the man said so himself—so he must be on the Mother of Invention. There’s only one person in that shade of blue he interacts with regularly anymore: Florida. Maybe he isn’t dead after all.

Belatedly, he notices how wet his cheeks have grown. He never cries; what happened? It must have been another mission he fucked up with his own horrific judgement he needs to be better he couldn’t stop it why couldn’t he stop it why why why–

Everything running through his head comes to an abrupt halt as Florida cautiously crosses the room. He sits cross-legged at Church’s side, and the AI jerks away hard. He’s learned his lesson. No more contact. Not after Epsilon. Not after 619-B. Not after everything.

The silence is deafening and he can’t bear it. Clearly, his teammate is waiting for him to say something. “Florida, she’s dead and it’s my fault,” he chokes after a moment. “It’s all my fault. I keep fucking up. Tex is dead and I killed her. Wash is dead and I killed him. Everything is my fucking fault.” He buries his head in his knees. “I can’t do shit.” With a humorless chuckle, he adds, “Some sorry fucking excuse for an A.I. I am.” He tries to shift his focus to the pressure of his knees against his forehead and away from what definitely wasn’t a sob that just escaped his mouth. The silence gets to him after a while, however, and he raises his head to meet Florida’s visor. He has his helmet cocked inquisitively, as if mulling over the A.I.’s words repeatedly.

“First of all, Church,” he starts matter-of-factly, “the state of Florida doesn’t exist anymore. Secondly, you are not an A.I. You are a human, just like me and like stupid Tucker and… well, not like Tucker’s son, but you know what I mean. And C, Agent Washington is not dead! You’re right here!”

His words hit Church like a freight train. Knocked off his balance, he throws out a hand to catch himself. The world is spinning and he has to be hallucinating because he is Church or is he Wash who was he _who was he_

“Ah. Well. That’s easy.” Church flinches, realizing that he must have spoken that last bit aloud. “You’re my best friend!” He freezes. Blinks once. Twice. 

“What?” The question is soft and pathetic, and he hates how vulnerable he sounds, but he needs an answer. He is not Florida’s best friend; they were never even all that close. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

Before he knows it, Florida has both arms wrapped around him and he can’t think can’t breathe what does the Director want with him why has he sent Florida to apprehend him what did he do he can’t do this anymore he can’t please—

“Church?” inquires Florida. “What’s wrong?” After a moment, Wash raises his head. He forces aside his pride in the name of desperation.

“Please don’t take me back to the Director. Please.” His voice is pleading, his tone is gravelly, and his throat feels like sandpaper. but he knows he has no other choice than to beg because he _can’t_. He can’t go back there. He just can’t.

“Hm,” begins Florida, startling Wash. “You know, I am not sure who the Director is, but we are not going to see him. I don’t really like Hollywood all that much, anyway.” Wash cocks his head. Stares directly into his visor for a moment or two. Yeah, something is definitely wrong. 

He’s never trusted Florida all that much before, but for some reason, his words cause his breathing to even out. He spends some time eyeing the man in blue before him. His helmet is all wrong, and he lacks the decorative equipment Florida oh so adores. Plus, he’s several inches taller and far broader in build. The silence had persisted somewhere between seconds and years when he finally responds.

“...you’re not Florida, are you?” The man looks taken aback. Holding him at arm length, he scoffs.

“Well, of course not, Church! My name is Michael J. Caboose, and I am your best friend.” Using those words as a catalyst, the world slips into focus and everything slams into him at once. His name is Agent Washington and he is at Outpost 48-A with his new team and almost everyone from Freelancer is dead and it’s not okay and he’s not okay. Separate fact from fiction. That's nothing new; that's something he can do. But most importantly, he’s safe. He’s with his team and he’s safe.

Slowly, with about as much caution as one can muster, Washington leans into the embrace. Wrapping his arms around Caboose, he realizes with a start that he can’t remember the last time he genuinely hugged someone. It must have been during Freelancer. But that’s impossible, isn’t it? Has it really been six years?

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Minutes, hours, maybe days. Eventually, he stops shaking. The silence is blanketing, but not necessarily unwelcome. At some point, Tucker appears in the door frame. Wash looks at him, but doesn’t move from his position. After another one of Tucker’s infamous whole body eye rolls and a sarcastic comment Wash can’t quite make out, he moves across the room and takes a seat next to them. 

The world is still. The world is tranquil. And, for the first time in years, Washington surrenders himself to a deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. Epilogue

Wash groans; the light peeking through the window of the base shines in his eyes and stirs him from his slumber. He props himself up on his elbow before pushing himself into a sitting position. How long had he been out? Considering that it’s daylight, he slept in hours later than he normally does.

Slowly but surely, the events of last night come back to him. He feels a slight flush creeping up his neck, reluctant to believe that he really fell asleep in a hug pile like a little kid. Unusually, however, he doesn’t feel anywhere near as embarrassed as he thinks he probably should.

His alarm clock lies unplugged and discarded on the other side of the room. Wash is willing to bet all he owns that Tucker nearly annihilated it when it went off at what he had previously deemed “an ungodly hour”. He should at least be thankful that the thing is even intact.

Stumbling out of his room, Wash makes his way towards the living area. Caboose is nestled in the corner of the couch, clipboard in hand as he diligently works on his newest crayon masterpiece. Across the room is Tucker, who is dutifully flipping pancakes at the stove. “Yo,” he greets.

“Good morning,” responds Wash, who has just realized he has no idea how to handle the aftermath of a mental breakdown followed by a sleep pile. The floor is suddenly very interesting as he repeatedly wrings his hands. “Um… look, about last night… or this morning, I guess? Whatever it is...”

“Dude,” Tucker interrupts. Wash raises his head to find the aqua soldier holding a plate of freshly cooked pancakes. “Food first, okay?” He’s offering an out, Wash realizes, and he’s surprised by the sudden rush of fondness he feels for the man before him. He flashes him a small appreciative grin and gives a curt nod.

The moment is interrupted when Caboose gasps. “I love pancakes!” The discarded clipboard clatters on the floor as he rushes to the table. “Maybe you are not so stupid after all, Tucker,” he comments before tacking on, “...Maybe.” A slight smile on his face, Wash grabs three plates and a handful of silverware from the cabinets before joining his teammates.

The second he sets down a plate, Caboose drops a pancake on it and begins to slice off a chunk. He shovels it into his mouth, only to start coughing. Muffled by the food, he comments, “Iss ‘oo mush. I can’ fi it in my mouf.”

Tucker snorts. “Bow chicka bow wow.” Smirking, he raises a hand for Wash to high five. The only response he gets is a raised eyebrow and a look that falls somewhere between bemusement and amusement. The aqua soldier rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Come on, man, don’t leave me ha–“ He freezes as his eyes go comically wide.

“Um… Don’t leave you hanging…?” Wash tries cautiously, every muscle in his body tensing as he prepares for the worst.  
Tucker abruptly pushes himself to his feet and is out the door before his chair even hits the floor. By some miracle, Wash just barely manages to make out the echo of what he’s shouting.

“OH SHIT, I FORGOT ABOUT THE REDS!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t not write this.

**Author's Note:**

> Ask: For the bad things that happen I can’t stop thinking about Wash with traumatic touch aversion. Considering some of the reds and blues *coughcaboose* may not necessarily understand personal space I just feel like it’d be hard on the poor freelancer
> 
> Finally throwing my hat in the ring for the Bad Things Happen Bingo! I want to start writing more, and this was a good start.
> 
> If you want to request a fic, head to drowninginfanart on Tumblr or comment down below.


End file.
